


Tumbling From A Tightrope

by gunpowder_and_pearls



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Bars, Dick Grayson Whump, Drinking, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Police officers, Restraints, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Sorry Not Sorry, The Organization - Freeform, Torture, mention of drugs, outside perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowder_and_pearls/pseuds/gunpowder_and_pearls
Summary: What if Dick Grayson stumbled across the Organization a different way?What if he investigated as a police officer, not as a superhero?
Comments: 18
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaydaractivate04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaractivate04/gifts).



Thank  _ god  _ for anonymous tippers. 

If Carlos could, he would kiss the person who’d decided to give them the lead they have now.

This case has been stretching on for far too long with no new leads and a helluva lot more dead bodies and broken minds. 

Ever since the Bludhaven police had found out that the missing girl, Rachel, was being hunted by some sort of underground organization, they’d been doing their best to take it down. Given that said organization was also the reason why more people were missing every week, there was a lot of motivation to do so. 

One anonymous phone call, sent in by a pay phone that had apparently been located inside a bar, and they had another lead. 

Another target. 

Another pin to add to their board of clues and dump sites. 

A man is currently sitting inside their interrogation room, handcuffed to the table. Captain Roberts had gathered the station into one large room, with every officer who isn’t out on a call waiting to hear what she’s going to say.

The captain has placed herself at the front of the room, a stack of files tucked under one arm. She sets her papers onto the table and the quiet buzz of conversation immediately stops, every eye in the room fastened on her. 

“Alright,” She says, determination underlining every word. “I’m sure you’ve all heard by now about the person we’ve got in holding.” At the small sounds of affirmation that rippled around the room, she continues. “We’ve managed to get quite some information out of him. After he found out that we know he works for whoever is behind these missing persons, he spilled.”

Carlos smiles slightly. The bastard probably knew he was a rat caught with his tail in a trap and decided to try to get free by cooperating. Captain Roberts is ruthless, and this is her city, no matter how corrupt it is. If she could, she’d likely kill their informat herself. 

That guy has no chance. 

“We have a location. The only problem is getting someone in.”

The room goes silent at her announcement. That single sentence means far more than it should. To say that they need to get someone in means that this isn’t going to be an immediate take down. She wants to put someone on the inside, likely wanting to make sure they get the most important ringleaders behind bars first. 

The only problem is who they are going to send to do it. The Captain wouldn’t send one of her officers in if she thought they wouldn’t make it out alive, but there was no guarantee they’d come out  _ whole _ . 

Carlos can only think of a select few officers who could have the chance to get all the way to whatever final location this organization takes their victims. It was rare that Bludhaven got officers who were adept in undercover work, and even rarer for the department to recruit someone who has the balls to do what needs to be done in situations like this. 

Captain Roberts would be an amazing officer to have undercover. It’s been a long time since she was in the field. But if rumors are to be believed then the last time she went undercover she managed to bring down an entire sex trafficking ring and arrest the leader in the same night. 

Unfortunately, as Captain she will be needed to oversee the entirety of this case. Both to communicate directly with whoever they sent in, and to plan who, exactly, the final force would be bringing the organization to its knees. 

The second person Carlos thinks of is Tyler Moore. The guy had been recruited about five years ago, and has proved to be reliable and courageous in stressful situations. He is a bit on the older side, just into his late-thirties, but Carlos knows that he’s done undercover work and he’s done it well. 

The last person that comes to mind is Dick Grayson, the new recruit and trust fund baby. Everyone in the station knows that Bruce Wayne paid his son’s way through training and testing. However, he likely isn’t corrupt. It’s pretty hard to bribe someone as rich as a Wayne. Another point in Grayson’s favor is the fact that he’s from Gotham.

You can’t be part of the Gotham police and not see some shit. They need to send in someone who’s calm under pressure, and nothing says pressure like being shot at by the Joker’s goons. 

The Captain shifts on her feet and Carlos snaps out of his speculation. She’s obviously gearing up to say something. Whoever she asks to go undercover does not legally have to accept the assignment. Roberts is obviously unsure if whatever officer she is going to assign to the case will cooperate. Carlos unconsciously tenses with the rest of the room at their Captain’s hesitation. 

She drums the table with her fingers for a moment before speaking. “The victims that they seem to be targeting are younger. We have a few of the locations that are being used for pickups and we’ll be sending in the officer to go to each.” She glances around the room and seems to like what she sees. Carlos watches as spines straighten and chins lift when her eyes land on each person. “This is going to be a high risk assignment. The department will be providing free healthcare and emergency care if needed.”

There’s almost a ripple of movement that travels across the room. Suddenly, the reality of this case is far closer than it was before. For the police department, the  _ city, _ to willingly provide care for free, means that the aftermath of going undercover could be much worse than what they are hoping it will be.

The Captain continues after a moment. “Officer Grayson, are you willing to take on this case and work undercover?”

The room goes silent. Sure, Carlos thought of Grayson as an option but he’d never really thought that Roberts would choose  _ him  _ for the case. The rest of the station seems to agree with him, almost everyone casting uncertain or incredulous looks at both the Captain and Grayson. 

From the corner of his eye, Carlos sees movement. He automatically glances in its direction and sees Grayson shifting slightly as he thinks. Emotions flash across the other officer’s face, each one too gone quick for anyone in the room except for the man himself to recognize. Finally, his face settles on one emotion. Determination. 

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take the assignment.” The man’s voice is slightly hoarse but it doesn’t waver. 

The Captain nods, relief in every relaxed line of her body. “Good,” she says. “Alright. I want everyone except for Powell, Fisher, Robinson and Murphy to leave. Grayson, you stay.”

Carlos stays rooted in place as people file past him, wondering what in the world the Captain wants with him. He glances at the other three officers who were told to stay behind and is relieved to see the same confusion he’s feeling on all of their faces.

Captain Roberts stays silent until the door closes behind the last exiting officer. “This is going to be a delicate case,” she says once the door clicks shut. “We are going to have to be very careful with how we do this. If you slip up,” she adds, nodding to Grayson. “We will likely not have another chance to take them down for years.”

She scans the faces of the officers in front of her. “I chose the rest of you to help run this assignment as well. Fisher, you’re one of our best technicians, I’m going to need you on comms and surveillance cameras.” Fisher smiles at the praise before sobering when he remembers why,  _ exactly _ , he has to be on comms. 

“Powell and Robinson.” She turns towards Carlos slightly and he straightens at his last name, his soon to be partner lifting her chin beside him. “You two are going to be our eyes on the ground when we send Grayson in. You will not be interfering with his part of this case, your job will be insurance that if he gets found out, we can make sure he isn’t killed.” 

Carlos glances at Grayson from the corner of his eye. The man seems unperturbed, the only sign that he’s affected by the easy way the Captain spoke of his death being his clenched fists at his sides. 

“Murphy.” Carlos’ eyes snap back towards the Captain, attention drawn away from the former Gothamite as Roberts continues talking about their mission. If he misses a single word, even if it isn’t sent in his direction, he could jeopardize the assignment. “I want you to get our most inconspicuous tracking device and give it to Grayson. We’ll need a way to find the organization’s base after they take him.”

Murphy nods, her face set in determination, and Carlos swallows roughly. He may not like Grayson, may think that the man is arrogant and an asshole, but he’s still not comfortable thinking about the possibility of losing one of his fellow officers to an organization that’s known for taking people and not returning them in one piece. 

Roberts turns to Grayson and the other officers unconsciously turn with her. “Your file says that you are very experienced in undercover work against various gangs in Gotham. What kind of undercover assignments have you taken?”

Grayson straightens, folding his arms to his chest as he spoke. “I’ve run a lot of undercover assignments.” He rocks back onto his heels and then forward, an unconscious movement that conveys the nerves that aren’t showing on his face. “I’ve taken the roles of gang members, of bar hoppers, drug dealers and buyers. I can do just about any cover.”

The Captain raises an eyebrow. “Can you play a honeypot?”

Carlos nearly chokes on his own tongue when Grayson nods. “You want me at a bar?”

Roberts smiles grimly. “The only real pattern we’ve got is they’re taking people who were last seen unable to fight back, whether that means inebriated, almost asleep or ill. We don’t have a set location that they’re taking people from, so we’re going to have you wandering from bar to bar for a few nights until they pick you up.”

Carlos winces at the flimsiness of the plan but he knows that with the level of intel they have, this was the best they could’ve done. 

Grayson nods again. “So you want me faking inebriation. Do you want me faking interest in anyone who approaches me?” 

There’s an unspoken question in his voice, asking whether or not he is meant to act as if he’s wanting to go home with someone, if that will draw the organization to him faster. 

The Captain shakes her head slightly. “We only want them to approach you. Act drunk, too drunk to be completely aware of your surroundings, and dissuade any advances anyone makes. We don’t want you leaving before they get there.” 

The Gothamite unfolds his arms and settles into a steady stance, the earlier nervous rocking long gone. “Will Powell and Robinson be with me at each location?”

“Yes. We’ll be sending them in about half an hour or so before you.” She glances at the two of them before looking back at Grayson. “They’re only there to interfere if you don’t seem to have the situation under control. You will be mainly flying solo on the assignment.”

Grayson makes a sound of agreement and the Captain turns back to address the group at large. “The assignment begins tonight. Grayson, go with Fisher and Murphy to get your tracker and comms. Make sure they are secure and can’t be lost easily.” The man glances at the two other officers and nods in assent. “Powell, Robinson, I will be briefing you both on the parameters of this assignment and when you are allowed to interfere. You’ll remain here.”

Carlos fights the urge to fidget as he watches the other three officers file out of the room quickly, and instead turns to face the Captain more fully. 

She waits until they’ve both put their attention completely on her before speaking. “I know that you two haven’t done a lot of undercover work. All you have to do is keep half an eye and ear on Grayson. If everything goes well, we shouldn’t even need you to do anything. You’ll go into a bar, grab a beer, sit at some little table and talk about sports for the entire time that you are there.” They nod and she relaxes from the tense posture she’d taken when she’d begun briefing them. “You’ll have comms on you as well, just in case we have to tell you to act. Understand?” 

They both vocalize their understanding with a quick ‘Yes, ma’am’, and then follow the path the others took to the door at her silent dismissal. Carlos walks faster than he normally would, ignoring the looks from the officers who are unaware of their purpose. 

He sends up a silent prayer that this mission will go as planned.

He may not like Grayson, but he wouldn’t wish what’s happening to the organization’s victims on him, not in a million years.


	2. Chapter 2

Carlos doesn’t think he’s ever seen Grayson be so  _ smiley _ . Every time he looks across the bar and catches a glimpse of the man’s wide grin and relaxed posture, he swears he gets whiplash. 

When the guy had first walked into the bar, almost forty minutes after his co workers arrived, Carlos had done a double take. The expression and loose posture that Grayson was wearing as he chatted up a woman while entering was so unlike the stubborn, dickish police officer that the station knows, that Carlos had wondered if Grayson had a twin for a moment.

The man had gently separated himself from the obviously enamoured lady and made his way to the bar, ordering a drink and flirting with both bartenders. Carlos glances at the Gothamite to find him gesturing largely while deep in conversation with yet another attractive man.

He turns back to Robinson, who is lightly tapping her fingertips on the edge of the table absentmindedly, and takes a sip of his beer. The drink is disgusting, a light brew that makes him screw his face up slightly each time he tastes it, but it was cheap and it was there, so he bought it. 

This is the second bar they’ve been to tonight and the shitty music combined with the even shittier beer is starting to take its toll on them. 

Carlos listens to the faint crackling in his right ear that tells him the comms are up and running. He darts another glance at Grayson and tries not to choke on his drink when the man leans against the bar, propping himself up with an elbow, and shifts his hips to jut out slightly. The woman he is talking to stumbles in her sentence before continuing.

Carlos ignores the quiet snickers over the comms and swallows another gulp of his beer. It’s not like the rest of them had been anymore prepared. He could count on one hand how many times he’d seen Grayson smile since the man joined his precinct. 

The next half hour passes slowly, the time interspersed with tiny sips of his beer and scraps of conversation with Robinson, who has been pretending to watch a football game over his shoulder for the last fifteen minutes. 

Carlos had just been thinking about ordering a thing of fries, because he’s been sitting here for an hour and his stomach is growling, when Robinson stiffens slightly. “I think,” she says quietly. “That the man who just approached Grayson is our guy.”

He nods slightly, keeping a grin on his face as he speaks. “You sure?” He asks.

She gives a slight shake of her head. “I can’t be sure…” she hesitates, then continues. “But the fact that he just put something in Grayson’s drink and didn’t look twice at his ass says something, doesn’t it?”

It’s silent over the comms for a moment and then it crackles back to life, the Captain’s voice ringing loud in his ear.  _ “Keep an eye on him. If it’s not our guy, you two will need to interfere. We’ll let you know.” _

Carlos tries not to fidget in his seat as he watches Grayson and the stranger out of the corner of his eye. Robinson drums her fingers on the table nervously, the nervous tic resurfacing as they wait for another bit of information or order. 

They don’t have to wait long. 

_ “The man that approached him has been missing since early March of last year. The organization didn’t kill him.” _

It’s easy to fill in the rest of that statement. They didn’t kill him and instead made him one of their own. They knew that the organization was doing  _ something  _ to the brains of the people they took but to have confirmation of their mind-controlling skills sent a shiver down his spine. 

They could take, and control, any of them. 

The man leans closer to the Gothamite and Grayson moves with him, shoulders relaxing as he takes a sip of his roofied drink. Carlos tries not to tense as the officer swallows, an easy smile on his lips as he responds to a question too quiet to hear from across the bar.

“Christ. Do you think he knows it’s drugged?” He looks across his table to Robinson, who is dutifully training her eyes back on one of the TVs over his shoulder. 

“I don’t think he even drank any.”

Carlos freezes for a moment and then does a double-take at Robinson’s convinced expression. “What? You think he noticed the guy put something in it?”

The woman nods. “I think he’s known the guy could be our target since he approached him. There’s no way he missed him drugging his drink, he’s from Gotham! He’s gone undercover in gangs, you heard him back at the station. He’s gotta be able to notice shit.”

He leans back in his chair, a tiny chuckle slipping out of his mouth. “Yeah, right. You and I both know his dad paid his way into the Academy.”

“Maybe he did. But there’s  _ no way  _ he faked those tests.” Robinson narrows her eyes as Carlos shrugs. “The administration is  _ unbribable! _ There’s a reason they have so much money and it's so no one can pay them off.”

Carlos huffs derisively. “Doesn’t mean he’s actually qualified. He can be a good shot and a good test taker, but can be shit on the streets.”

“You think someone who’s worked in Gotham can fuck up on the job and  _ survive?” _

A spike of static in his ear makes him wince, grip tightening on his drink.  _ “Stop speculating about the skill of the officer we’re about to send in on a potential suicide mission and get back on the job. Our mark’s making a move.” _

Carlos and Robinson reflexively glance in Grayson's direction only to see him almost completely supporting his weight on the bar, the stranger now only a step away as he speaks quietly to the undercover officer. 

Grayson seems completely at ease, if completely drunk. But - Carlos knows he’s only had  _ maybe  _ three drinks, and apparently has barely been drinking any of them anyway. The Gothamite sways slightly, almost dropping the glass in his hand as he spreads his arms for balance, and the man in front of him takes a step closer, steadying Grayson as he pulls the drink from his hand. The man murmurs something and the Gothamite nods easily, a loose smile on his face. 

“Captain?” Robinson’s question is short but purposeful. 

_ “Leave it. He’s got comms on him. We’re on the security cameras from the surrounding street and alleyways. We’ll know if this isn’t the organization.” _

Carlos nodded reflexively. “Yes ma’am.”

He watches as Grayson is guided through the bar, the stranger keeping a hand on his waist and maneuvering him around tables. The officer only looks back once. He lolls his head to the side as they near the table the two undercover cops are at and makes eye contact with both of them. 

His eyes are almost glassy, unfocused as they flit from face to face. If it wasn’t for the tiny upturn of his lips, Carlos would have no idea that Grayson wasn’t dead to the world. Other than that tiny sign, there is no recognition in his expression as he looks at his coworkers. 

He hears Robinson suck in a sharp breath next to him and glances over to her. Her gaze is trained on Grayson as he is led out the door, stumbling as he goes. 

“He’s good,” she says, a small grin on her face. Carlos can’t help but agree wholeheartedly. If the Captain had sent anyone else in, he isn‘t sure the organization would have actually fallen for it. 

There’s another few minutes of waiting and then-

_ “We ran the guy’s face through missing persons notifications to double check our information.”  _ There is a crackling that signals the Captain is now speaking to both Grayson and the two officers across the room.  _ “His name is Harris Browning, age forty three. Went missing out in Nevada last March, hasn’t been seen since. He’s our guy.”  _ Her tone fills with pride, the feeling almost completely pointed towards Grayson.  _ “You’re in.”  
  
_

* * *

Dick doesn’t like working undercover. He doesn’t like bars. There’s too many memories of Roy attached to the bottles that line the shelves. 

Another thing he doesn’t like is his coworkers. 

It’s not that they’re all bad people or that they’re all corrupt. It’s just that his assholeish way of speaking to them isn’t putting them off from trying to figure him out. If anything, they started trying harder. 

But none of those things would ever be enough to deter him from accepting this assignment. He’d been ready to take down this organization since the police caught wind of the first body.

Victims are turning up both dead and alive. Autopsies on corpses have revealed damaged tissue in the hippocampus and the frontal lobe. They can’t know for sure, not without interrogating someone high up in whatever hierarchy controls the organization, but if Dick has to guess he'll say they are working on complete mind control. 

Their methods are smart, really. They wipe their victim’s memory first, so there is nothing giving them prior experience to draw on for morals, and then they begin targeting the part of the brain that controls decision making. 

Somehow, they gain control of the victim’s mind and use them, although the police haven’t been able to determine  _ what,  _ exactly, they’re being used for. 

When they get a report of another missing person, the first thing they do is put out an alert across the country to keep an eye out for them. They’ve only caught sight of a missing person who’d resurfaced once. 

The woman had been found with another man and two younger teenagers. All had been reported missing at one point, and later, presumed dead. Not a single one of them seemed aware of anything before they were taken, not even their names. 

The police came in contact with the group only once. Two days later, the four of them had vanished, leaving an abandoned house that had been left so quickly there was still bacon cooking on the stove. 

Knowing that for every day they didn’t make progress in bringing down the organization meant more people died, more people disappeared, Dick couldn’t refuse the assignment. 

So here he is, comm in one ear, the thing small and colored to his skin tone to better disguise itself, and a tracker embedded within the same object. 

He lets himself be guided out of the bar, an arm wrapped around his waist and a mouth near his ear, the man, Harris, muttering words in a steady litany of filth. Dick really hopes that he’s just keeping up an appearance until he gets his victim to whatever transportation he’s using. If he tries to follow through with the promises that are falling from his lips, Dick can’t be sure he won’t snap some bones in the struggle. 

He knows he’ll do just about anything to keep this assignment from falling through, especially after the last body was found. The girl had been in her mid-twenties and had obviously been held captive for a long time. She had been far too skinny, even for a corpse that had been decomposing for days, and tear tracks had been the only clean part of her face. 

Dick isn’t willing to blow his cover, not even to defend himself from the man beside him, but he won’t go down without a fight.

He wonders if his coworkers can hear what the guy was saying. He hopes they can’t. 

He lets himself be led another couple stumbling steps before he slumps almost completely against Harris. The slightly salty taste of Rhophynl in the drink the man had given him had stopped him from drinking more than the tiny sip he’d swallowed. Now he acts as if the drug finally kicks in fully, letting a few unintelligible slurred words slip from his mouth, lolling his head towards the ground as he goes limp.

Harris swears, shifting his grip from just around his waist to looping around his chest and holding him upright. “Jesus,” he says. “You really are a lightweight.”

Despite the fact that there is meaning behind the words the man says, his tone stays bland and off, each sentence slightly off kilter. Dick wonders if the man who’s trapped by his brainwashing would say the same things. 

Dick is half carried, half dragged, to an older car parked off the curb. He allows himself to be manhandled into the backseat and doesn’t twitch when the seatbelt is pulled over his lap, just lets his head rest on the back of the seat and closes his eyes slightly in an imitation of drunken sleep. 

Harris pauses before he shuts the door, looking down at Dick with a blank expression, almost as if he doesn’t know  _ why  _ there’s a half unconscious person in the backseat of his car. Dick feels a surge of hope that he quickly squishes down, knowing that false hope is the stupidest thing he can have on this assignment. 

The man hesitates for a moment longer and then slams the door shut, the car shuddering with the force used. Dick listens to the crunch of bits of gravel under the man’s shoes as he makes his way to the driver’s seat. 

_ “Grayson. If you’re able to verbally respond, do so. If you can’t, then make noise. One for yes, two for no.”  _ The steady sound of his Captain’s voice serves to release the tension he didn’t even know was building in his shoulders.  _ “We heard what he was saying. Does he seem like he’ll follow through?” _

Dick flicks his gaze to the rear view mirror, where he can see Harris’ eyes locked on the road, almost empty in their unwavering gaze. He lets himself slide on the seat as the car goes around a turn and mumbles a couple broken syllables under his breath, as if he is still struggling against the drug that has supposedly muffled his mind. There’s a soft sigh of relief over the comms, quickly cut off. Roberts likely doesn’t want him aware of her worry.

_ “Good. The tracker is holding steady. If you can, find some way to let us know when you’ve arrived at what could be your final destination.”  _ Dick lets a grunt of acknowledgement out and she continues.  _ “We have your tracker on screen. I know this is a difficult assignment but remember that we are all right behind you.” _

The Gothamite coughs as quietly as he can and listens to her short goodbye, ending their conversation. 

The static that cuts off only reminds him how isolated he is on this assignment. He knows that his coworkers would be ready to join him within a few hours after a call for help, and he knows that those hours of waiting is for the officers to arm themselves for whatever they could be walking into. The knowledge doesn’t stop the tightening in his throat or the ache in his stomach when he thinks about everything that can happen within a few hours. 

Dick’s not sure how long he spends in the car. The passing of time is unmeasureable without a clock of some kind, and it’s far too cloudy for him to know the hours by the sun. The only thing he’s really aware of is the steady rolling of the car and the slightly tinny music that’s pouring out of the speakers at the front of the car.

He knows he’s drifting slightly but without anything to plan, anything to piece together, there’s not a lot to hold him down.

He won’t let it derail him from the mission. He can’t. He just can’t sit in the backseat of a car with a brainwashed man driving, knowing that he doesn’t have a clue about what he’s walking into. 

Dick jolts from his drifting thoughts when the car rumbles its way over a particularly deep pothole and he is jerked against the seatbelt so hard that he winces. He glances towards the rearview mirror, but Harris’ blank gaze is still trained on the street in front of them. 

Then they begin to turn, driving down a long isolated strip of road, and Dick lets his eyes sllip to half mast, pulling the mask of someone drugged out of their mind more securely to his face. He watches from under his drooping lids as the car pulls to the side of the road, idling in front of an empty looking building. 

The place is surrounded by fences and every last window is boarded up. Dick can see chains looped around the handles of each door. He begins to feel jittery, as if he’d just downed a pack of redbulls. It's the adrenaline rush that he gets before each big fight, each big case when he was Robin and now as a police officer. 

Dick forces down the feeling, knowing that it wouldn’t help him, not if his purpose was to remain undercover. The engine turns off and Harris climbs out of the car, quickly making his way around to Dick’s door.

The car door is flung open so hard that Dick is rocked from side to side in his limp state, body jerking against the seatbelt. He doesn’t move, keeps his eyes unfocused and almost closed, as the brainwashed man scoops him up, easily lifting him from the vehicle. 

The mind control must somehow knock out the instinctive block in their minds that stops humans from exerting themselves too much. The man shouldn’t be able to lift Dick so easily without showing some kind of strain. Instead, the man is showing zero hesitation in carrying him, not hesitating for a single step as he moves towards a pair of doors that Dick somehow missed in his initial scan of the building. 

The chain wrapped around the entrance handles is loose but not locked. The Gothamite glances at the ground, knowing that Harris’ eyes are trained ahead of him, gaze barely wavering. He doesn’t see any sign of a lock that had been broken. 

It’s almost a complete confirmation that the abandoned building is a base of the organization.

Harris opens the doors almost silently, balance not wavering when he begins to hold Dick upright with only one arm, using the other to unwind the loop of chain. The length of metal falls to the ground with an echoing clatter and then the man is pulling a door open and dragging Dick inside. 

The door swings shut with a heavy thud and then he’s being carried down a dark hallway, the space only illuminated by occasional flickering bulbs. There’s a crackling in his ear and he almost sags in relief with the knowledge that his Captain is there to help him, even if it’s in the form of asking for an update on his location or potential injuries.

_ “Grayson. We’ve got a lock on your location. If you think you are at a more permanent location, not a transfer point, acknowledge.”  _ She pauses and there’s a shuffling from her end of the line, as if someone is fighting for space around the microphone she’s speaking into.  _ “If not, remain silent.” _

Dick remains silent for a moment, knowing that any sound he makes will have to have a cause. If he looks like he’s coming out from under the drugs, Harris might redose him. The man takes another lumbering step and Dick swings himself slightly to the side, pulling him off balance.

The Gothamite is knocked into the wall as Harris struggles to readjust his grip, leaning to compensate Dick’s sudden increase in pull to the floor. A grunt escapes his mouth as his shoulder is slammed into the pipes that line the hallway, loud enough for his comm to pick up. 

_ “Okay. Good. As we can’t be sure how permanent of a location it is without more observation, we’ll be giving you a week. If it is confirmed, let us kn-” _

Dick’s concentration on the comm is cut off as Harris scowls at him, dropping him to the floor. “You are struggling too much.”

The detective hears a quick breath over the comms and knows his captain, as well as any other officers with her, are listening. 

Dick lets out a cough, lolling his head back as he pretends it’s too heavy to hold up. “Wha’ are you doin’,” He slurs, trailing off as if the sentence is gone from his thoughts as fast as it appeared.

Harris brings a foot back and Dick feels himself tense minisculely. He’s ashamed to say he didn’t even connect the dots until now. Of  _ course _ the man’s controllers wouldn’t want any delays. They likely instructed him to get rid of any stalling attempts as quickly as possible. 

“Wait-” Dick cuts off, all the air in his lungs expelled by the boot that comes crashing into his stomach. He curls in on himself, instinctively trying to suck in oxygen as his body tries to recover. He can’t pull in any air and he has nothing to gasp out. He’s choking on nothing, spasming on the ground, when Harris bends down. There’s chatter in his ear, someone asking him what’s happening, but all of his senses are narrowed onto the man in front of him. 

“We’ve got to go,” Harris says cheerily, his tone at odds with his face moments ago. “We’re going to be late and being late isn’t professional.” 

He lifts Dick from the floor and slams a powerful hand into his back, kicking his lungs back into gear. Dick sucks in a frantic lungful of air and then coughs it back out, diaphragm jumping as he hacks. 

He begins to inhale slowly, testing the amount of air he can breathe in before his lungs rebel and try to expel it. He continues his methodical breathing as they move down the hallway, Harris’ echoing footsteps only interrupted by Dick’s occasionally coughs. 

By the time the police officer has gotten his lungs under control, they’ve entered another long hallway, this one lined with doors that have been bolted shut. With only the sound of Harris’ boots hitting the floor to distract him, Dick is able to concentrate on the doors, listening for any sign that there are people behind them. Aside from an occasional creak or faint scuff, he hears nothing to confirm that he is not the only prisoner in the building.

He zones back into the present, registering that the voices from the comm have gone silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak first. He remains silent as he is dragged from the first hallway into another one. There’s a few moments of being carried before they’re turning. 

Harris unbolts a door, the only one in all of the hallway that Dick can see, and walks inside. The walls are padded and there is a solitary chair in the center of the room. The Gothamite lets himself be manuvered into it and strapped down, padded restraints coming over his wrists and ankles, as well as one over his forehead, pinning his head to the chair. Dick can feel his hands start to tremble and forces them to still, pressing his palms flat to the armrests. He swallows thickly and relaxes his muscles, one by one, pushing the panic back from his mind. 

His stomach and back still ache, protesting the rough treatment they’re being given as Dick is settled into the chair. Dick pushes the pain away as well, gritting his teeth when his body throbs. The ache in his jaw distracts him from the flares of pain in his torso.

The man gives him a quick once over and then nods to himself. He leaves the room, not pausing for more than the one glance. The door clangs shut behind him with a sense of finality.

Dick waits until Harris’ heavy footsteps fade completely before he begins to scan the room, although he keeps his eyes half closed and his body limp. Speakers are installed by the ceiling in each corner and light streams in from a warped window behind a camera. 

The organization likely thinks he’s still too drugged to be useful, but there’s no way for him to know for sure if they’re watching him. 

“I’m alone now,” he murmurs, careful to barely move his lips. “I’m fine.”

_ “Report on your condition, Grayson.”  _ The professionalism of Roberts’s words is undermined by the franticness of her tone. 

“Got the wind knocked out of me, that’s all.” Dick blinks slowly, knowing that if the camera’s footage is being watched, he’ll look much less lucid than he is. “I had to find a reason to make a noise, got Harris overbalanced and I got knocked into the wall. He got mad at me for stalling.”

_ “Where are you now?” _

“I-uh. I’m in a padded room, pretty deep into the building.” He pauses when more noise comes over the comms. “I’m strapped into a chair, there’s no way I can fight back.”

_ “Jesus.” _ The exclamation is the first time his Captain has allowed herself to show emotion.  _ “We will remain on the comms. Let us know when they’ve returned or made contact with you _ .”

“Yes ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Implied/referenced potential sexual assault, and excessive use of force via boot


	3. Chapter 3

He settles back to wait, letting his eyes slip almost all the way closed. The chair, while padded, seems to be getting more uncomfortable by the second. He has no way to tell time, not without a clock or a glimpse of sunlight.

By the time that something happens, by the time the organization decides they want to do something about him, his limbs have gone stiff and he can feel that the effects from the tiny bit of rophynl he swallowed at the bar have faded away.

The speakers in the corners of the ceiling crackle to life and Dick jerks in his seat instinctively, his senses dialed to eleven from having adjusted to the silence that had surrounded him since he’d been locked in the room. His eyes dart to the source of the sound and he waits, eyes flickering from the door to the camera and then back to the speakers. 

“Mister Grayson, welcome.”

“Who are you?” He asks, trying to play dumb for as long as possible. If they know his name, they could know his job. And knowing they have a police officer in their custody could potentially tip them off to an investigation. 

_ “Grayson?” _

Dick ignores the confusion that is coming over the comm and continues to watch both the camera and the door. “What do you want with me?”

“All we want is for you to cooperate.” The woman’s voice pauses and the speakers crackle in the silence that comes with her hesitation. “Your cooperation will make the next few weeks much more comfortable for you.”

_ “Grayson! What’s happening?”  _ The urgency in his captain’s voice convinced him to respond, not wanting to leave his fellow officers in the dark, even at the risk of blowing his cover. If needed, he could play it off as talking to himself while coming out from under the drugs. 

Dick swallows, making the movement as visible as possible, and lets his eyes drop to the floor. “They want me to cooperate,” He murmurs. He does his best to quell the shaking that is trying to overtake his body. “I don’t know what they’re planning yet.” He opens his mouth to continue, but cuts himself off when the door swings open. 

Two men, dressed in what could only be nurse scrubs, stand in the doorway, one carrying a syringe with a needle that looks almost too big to fit in one of his veins. 

“Mister Grayson,” the woman says, her voice coming over the speakers. “Please cooperate. Struggling will do you no good.”

The nurses advance into the room and Dick finds himself pulling uselessly at the straps that hold him down, every instinct in his body screaming at him to run, to fight, to do  _ something  _ other than sit there and take it. Dick knows that the fear flooding him is useless, something he should be compartmentalizing and stuffing away. Having his awareness clouded by his instincts is not going to be helpful in the long run. 

But stuck in an uncontrollable situation, with the very real looming threat of mind control and a too-late rescue, he is unable to do more than push the emotion back enough to pay attention to the two men who are nearing him. 

One of the men lifts the syringe, preparing to give Dick whatever liquid that will be pushed out through the needle. Panic is pumping through his veins and he snarls, baring his teeth at the nurses. “What the fuck is that?” He yells, wrenching against his restraints. “Get the  _ fuck  _ away from me.”

“Mister Grayson, do not struggle.” Her voice is impassive, tone not changing as she speaks to the panicked police officer.

_ “Officer Grayson, report!” _

“Get that the fuck away from me!” Dick hisses and spits, jerking away as much as possible when the man with the syringe moves closer. He can't move more than an inch or two, his head securely tied down to the chair, and the nurse doesn’t hesitate in sinking the needle into his neck. 

“What the fuck…” Dick trails off, the room spinning as the drug kicks in, working quickly as his heartbeat begins to pound in his ears. “Wha’...” The door swings shut, the nurses having exited the room, but he hardly notices. His stomach is swooping like a kite caught in the wind and he groans, the motion of the room picking up as his nausea grows.

Voices filter in and out of his ears, each string of words fading from his attention before he can decipher its meaning. 

_ “-ayson, report. This is your ca-” _

“-ank you for your cooperation, Mister Grays-”

_ “-atus. Repor-” _

“-ook forward to wor-”

His breath catches in his throat and he clenches his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The spinning of the room has intensified, as if it is a hurricane and Dick has found himself just outside the eye of it. 

The pounding in his head changes, now mimicking the surges of fire in his blood instead of the rapid beat of his heart. The burning creeps inward, getting closer and closer to his chest with each second. He sucks in a harsh breath, body beginning to tremble as the burn inside of him grows to an intolerable heat. 

_ “-son. Grayson!” _

The pain peaks and then steadies, becoming a constant instead of a growing throb. Dick exhales, the air coming out in more of a sob than a sigh. Without sudden changes, he can do this. He opens his mouth, preparing to respond to his Captain, perhaps to discuss their next move-

The fire flares and Dick jerks, bucking against his restraints as he instinctively tries to twist away from whatever is his source of pain-

He screams.

The sound is torn from his throat roughly, leaving quivering vocal cords behind. It goes on until he can’t get enough breath into his body to continue, instead gaping silently, body arched in one long line of agony.

Whatever thoughts that had been present in his mind before the drug are wiped away, erased by the white noise that fills his ears. 

Dick is gasping and shuddering, choked noises coming out between each inhale and exhale. “Oh god, oh my god-” A thin whine is coming from somewhere and it takes him too long to realize that it’s coming from his own mouth. 

The pain builds and builds, pressure growing in the base of his skull. Black spots swirl in the edges of his vision, blocking what little of the room his unfocused eyes could see. A moan slips out from between his lips and when the black splotches turn into darkness that quickly settles over all of his senses, he does nothing but sigh with relief and slip into the silence’s peaceful embrace. 

* * *

Carlos is frozen in his seat. 

After returning from Robinson’s and his bit of the assignment at the bar, they’d been directed towards their original meeting room, the place where this whole shit show had started. Captain Roberts has only allowed Robinson, Murphy, Fisher and himself onto the comms with her. 

And now they’re all sitting around a table, Roberts frantically demanding answers over the comms from Grayson, his screams still ringing in their ears. It’s silent for a moment, static coming over the speaker, and then Grayson begins to talk again. 

_ “Oh god,”  _ They hear, the words slipping out between pants and gasps. The officers in the room are strained, leaning towards the speaker as if they could somehow save him, as if they could somehow stop whatever is happening.  _ “Oh my god.”  _

Carlos clenches his teeth. Not being able to see what Grayson is experiencing, leaving everything to his imagination, is worse than Carlos would’ve thought possible. Suddenly, he wishes that the Captain had never given them this assignment. That some other department had picked up the case and that none of them had ever taken a single step in the direction of the building Grayson is trapped in.

The Gothamite lets out a groan, the sound tinny over the mics and then falls silent, likely dead to the world, wherever he is.

The room stays quiet for a moment, the only sound other than the faint crackle of Grayson’s comm being their ragged breaths. Carlos watches Captain Roberts run a hand over her face, watches Fisher and Murphy fidget anxiously, their inexperience and discomfort clear in the lines of their faces. Robinson lets out a slow breath and takes a deep sip of her coffee, the drink long gone cold. 

Carlos runs a worried hand through his hair and then drums his fingertips on the table. “Now what?” he asks, gaze jumping from face to face, before landing on his captain. “Do we just wait?”

Roberts nods, almost absentmindedly shuffling a pile of reports into a neat stack, each paper filled with sightings and encounters with the organization they’re chasing. “Now we wait.”

“Christ.” 

He glances at the other officers and sees his own anxiety and discomfort with the situation reflected on their faces. He darts another glance at Roberts to find her staring down the speakers Grayson’s voice had just been coming from, as if she could make him wake up by sheer will alone.

Carlos stuffs his shaking hands in his pockets and then pulls them out again. “...I’m gonna go get us some more coffee-” - _ because it was obvious none of them were going home tonight _ \- “-anyone want anything else?”

There are various noises of dissent from around the room and Carlos nods once, sharply, before making his way to the shitty coffee machine no one seems to want to replace. In the minutes it takes to brew the drink, Carlos manages to distract himself by first, assembling their cups in a perfect line, and then unfolding and reconstructing a single paperclip over and over again. 

The light on the coffee machine flickers to green, signalling Carlos to start pouring, and as the steam rises from the cup, Carlos wonders just how fucked up Grayson is going to be when they manage to pull him out of there. And how easy it’s going to be to piece him back together.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual drug use and needles


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more whump. sorry?

_ “-ayson. Grayson, can you hear me?” _

The words seem to slide in one ear and out the other. The fog that is filling Dick’s head lessens slightly and he lets out a hissed breath as the numbness in his limbs fades. His body aches, the pain throbbing in time with his heart beat. 

He lets out a groan. 

_ “Grayson!”  _ Roberts’ voice is stern in her concern. 

“ ‘m okay,” he murmurs, lips barely lifting as he speaks. Batman trained him better than to lose track of the situation, and the itch he feels between his shoulder blades is undoubtably eyes trained on him. “Feeling foggy.”

_ “Do you need extraction?” _

Dick considers that for one guilt filled second. If he abandons this case, if he asks to be rescued, no one will accuse him of not caring. No one will think he didn’t want to help those who had been hurt. 

The blank eyes of the bodies they’d already found, captured by crime scene photos that Dick has spent countless hours examining, float through his mind. He can’t stop, not when they’ve finally managed to get someone on the inside. Not when they’ve finally gotten some kind of  _ lead. _

“No.”

He gets a sigh over the comm and knows that his Captain will respect his decision. If only because she would’ve likely made the same one.

_ “We’ll be listening around the clock.” _

Dick can barely prevent himself from nodding in response. “Sounds good.”

The crackle in his ear signals their signing off, muting themselves while still listening to him. Dick scans the room, looking for some sort of change, something that could warn him of what comes next. 

Seconds turn to minutes and minutes drag into hours as he waits. At some point, he drifts off again and when he wakes, he knows something has changed. There is no difference in lighting or in the sealed room he is trapped in, but his instincts are screaming. 

By now, he knows to trust his instincts. 

The time that ticks by is immeasurable. His eyes burn with the effort it takes to keep them open. Dick isn’t sure what the people who are watching are waiting for, but he hopes that he’ll at least be  _ awake  _ by the time they decide to do something. 

“Come on!” He yells, turning his head the few inches that is allowed to face the cameras that watch him. 

For a moment, there is no reaction, and Dick wonders if now he’ll just be left alone for even longer. Isolation does something to a person, especially to someone so prone to contact as Dick. 

“Mr Grayson. I’d like to thank you for your participation earlier.” The mystery woman’s voice is calm and uncaring, without a single emotion underlying her words. 

“ _ Participation? _ ” He all but snarls, spit flying as he plays his part. They think that the man in front of them is terrified. They think he’s scared shitless and that he’s covering it up with the bluster that tends to accompany terror. If that’s what they’re expecting, then that’s  _ exactly  _ what they are going to get. “You drugged me!”

“I assure you, it was a necessary test. We are merely gathering data.”

Data? To create more mindless soldiers? More people who disappear themselves the moment they are discovered to  _ exist?  _

Dick lets his face twist into a mask, full of barely contained fear and too much curiosity. “F-For what? What are you people trying to do? I’m not a meta, I swear.” He lets his words stumble over themselves, lets sweat bead on the edges of his face. “Please, just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone,  _ I swear. _ ”

When the woman responds, her words are almost amused, the most human she has sounded since he arrived. “But we’re not done with you yet.”

Had anyone before him said the same words? He pictures the teenager who had been spotted, pictures her in his place, and holds back the bile that threatens to surge up his throat. If he’s lucky, he’ll be the last person they take. 

The door swings open for the second time, and Dick’s eyes automatically move with the movement, darting from one person to another as two nurses, almost identical to the men before, enter the room. 

“Please, not again.  _ Not again _ .” The words slip from his mouth unbidden, as the memory of the pain that had filled him rises to the surface of his still foggy brain. 

He hears a click in the comm as his Captain undoubtedly prepares to speak, but then one of the nurses reaches him, syringe in hand. The panic that fills him mimics the last time, but just as before, his desperate attempts to pull away do nothing but amuse the men. 

The syringe sinks into his neck and the plunger is pushed almost immediately, leaving no time to move and somehow dislodge the needle. 

It takes a moment for whatever drug that they gave him to kick in, and Dick fills it with deep breaths. If he can get enough oxygen into his brain, he can minimize any potential brain damage that could come with the substance. 

He can feel his hands beginning to shake and sweat gather in the hollows of his body. Try as he might, Dick can’t stop himself from bracing for the pain, for the burning electricity that will replace his veins. 

A laugh echoes in his ear and he jerks, trying in vain to twist in the direction of the sound. The cackle repeats and Dick tenses.  _ Joker _ .  _ That means that this isn’t real.  _ His heart is hammering against his ribs in a useless fight or flight response, adrenaline pumping at the sound of one of Gotham’s bogeymen. 

_ “You’re a disappointment. I should’ve fired you years ago.”  _ Bruce’s voice is twisted, without a single ounce of love or care in his tone. 

_ It’s fake _ , Dick tells himself.  _ It’s not real, you know that.  _ He wonders which of his nightmares will torture him. If this drug is anything like the fear toxin that terrorizes Gotham citizens, it’ll only be seconds until he can’t tell hallucinations from reality. 

A figure steps from the shadows.  _ “Apprentice. You have forgotten your training. _ ”

Deathstroke stands in front of him, looking exactly as he had all those years ago, when Dick traded himself for the lives of his teammates. When he traded every piece of himself for his friends’ safety. Dick swallows thickly.  _ He can’t go through that again _ . 

“You’re not real,” Dick says. He’s not sure what difference he expected that to make. It does nothing to dissipate the man before him, who is looking more tangible by the second. 

The older man raises an eyebrow.  _ “Who’s to say that that wasn’t all just a dream?”  _ Dick shudders, shaking his head minutely.  _ “Do you  _ really  _ think that I would let you quit? You’re mine, now. _ ” The derision in Slade’s words makes Dick shake his head again, panic growing in his stomach. 

“No,” he says. Trembles are running through his body and are growing by the second. “You’re gone. I watched you die. I  _ know  _ you aren’t here.”

Slade snorts, moving forward.  _ “Just because it was Wonder Woman’s swords that took my head off doesn’t mean that I can’t just pull it back on.” _

Dick squeezes his eyes closed and then opens them, as if that would somehow clear his vision. “This is just like fear toxin,” he murmurs, more to himself than to the figure in front of him. “It’s just knock-off fear toxin, it’ll be over eventually.” He just has to make it through without saying anything about his night job. 

Footsteps sound behind him and he twists, suddenly free of his restraints. The walls blur around him, morphing into a room reminiscent of his days with Deathstroke. Shadows flicker as Dick scans the space around him, Slade no longer there. 

His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and Dick slows his movement, his breathing and heartbeat doing the same. He can feel his training slipping into place, shoving the panic that’s thrumming through his body into a box and tucking it away. 

There’s a flash of movement in the corner of his vision and the vigilante spins, hands out and holding tightly to his escrima. 

_ Nothing.  _

Dick can feel the fear building in his chest in response to Slade’s tactics, and snarls, the sound more fear than anything else. “Show yourself, Wilson!” He yells. The room turns around him and he sways.  _ Slade must have drugged him at some point.  _ His hands shake and he tightens his grip until his knuckles whiten. “Don’t play these fucking games with me!”

“ _ You’ve really slacked off these past years, haven’t you, birdie.”  _ Deathstroke moves towards him, pushing off from the wall he’d been leaning against. Dick isn’t sure how he didn’t notice him before. “ _ We’re really going to have to step up your training. _ ”

Then Slade is right in front of him, swinging his suddenly unsheathed broad sword in a vicious downward strike that, if it had landed, would’ve split Dick in half. Metal slides against metal, sparks flying, and Dick tightens his grasp on his blade as he slows the descent of Slade’s swing. 

“ _ Good. _ ”

“Fuck you.”

And then the pain hits, piercing straight through Dick’s abdomen. He groans, choking on the blood that fills his mouth. He looks down, sword slipping from his fingers and clattering on the ground. Slade laughs and twists his blade, sending agony spiking through Dick’s body. The broad sword is shoved deeper as Slade steps closer, wrapping an arm around Dick’s waist in some parody of comfort, and Dick feels the blade’s point break through the skin on his back, blood soaking his shirt. 

Dick groans and slumps forward, sliding further onto the sword, spears of pain shooting through his body, tearing through his muscle and bone, sending trembles through his limbs, and rests his forehead on Slade’s shoulder. The older man’s body rumbles beneath him as he chuckles, the sound inhuman in its equal satisfaction and coldness. 

“ _ Looks like we’re going to have to practice that quite a lot.”  _ Slade steps back and Dick feels the sword get dragged out of him, cold metal scraping against one of his ribs. 

He slumps to the floor, pressing a hand to the hole in his abdomen. The room is spinning. Panic is still blaring in his head, the last vestiges of adrenaline doing nothing but send more of his life dripping through his fingers. 

The heartbeat that has been pounding in his ears is slowing dangerously and Dick sucks in a ragged breath.  _ Is this how he dies? On the floor of a warehouse with Slade standing over him?  _

It’s almost ironic, in the way it mimics his past. He had lived with Slade’s shadow looming over him and now he will die, staring up at Slade’s eye and waiting for the darkness at the edges of his vision to swallow him whole.

Light appears in the corner of his eye and he watches as a blurry figure throws open the door to the warehouse, another person following after them. Dick glances at Deathstroke to gauge his reaction, to see if they’re a test, people he’ll have to kill, only to find the older vigilante gone. 

The other men near and Dick stares, wide eyed, at them.  _ Nurse scrubs? Who wears nurse scrubs into a warehouse?  _ Something stings the side of his neck and he jerks away.

“No,” he says, voice slurring in a way that sends alarm bells ringing through his head. Dick blinks, eyelids heavy. He can’t pass out, not with Slade around. Not with the endless possibilities of punishment, should he fall asleep. 

His struggles do nothing but tire him out, and Dick can feel himself slipping away. “ _ No _ ,” he whispers, and then-

Nothing.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual drug use, hallucinations, descriptive hurt/gore, and some more non-consensual drug use.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY GAYDARACTIVATE04
> 
> YOURE WELCOME


End file.
